Moya pressed his hand, but not the point, though she was sorely tempted to do that too. She had even a sense of irritation at his caring to hide anything from her, but she was quick to see the unworthiness of this sentiment, and quicker to feel a remorse which demanded some sort of expression in order to restore complete self-approval. Yet she would not confess what had been (and still lingered) in her mind. So she fretted about the trifle in your true lover's fashion, and was silent until she hit upon a compromise.
"You know—if only anybody could!—how I would make up to you for all that you have lost, dearest. But nobody can. And I am full of the most diabolical faults—you can't imagine!"
And now she was all sincerity. But Rigden laughed outright.
"Tell me some of them," said he.
Moya hesitated; and did not confess her innate curiosity after all. She was still much too conscious of that blemish.
"I have a horrible temper," she said at length.
"I don't believe it."
"I certainly shouldn't believe him."
"Then wait and see."